I received a backhanded comment from a friend one weekend. In our phone conversation, I mentioned how two months (and counting) into our third (total) lockdown in Malaysia (no gyms, no visitors, no dine-ins, no barbershops, no non-essential retail [which until recently included electronics and books in the non-essentials list]) has coaxed this sense of disengagement with the present, with time. As if we were in a weird time warp; fluctuating between repeated Sundays and skipping through the once dreaded Mondays. Every day felt the same. And I sometimes lost track of the days. Mistaking a Wednesday for a Sunday; a Saturday for a Thursday. To which she replied, “Well, it’s not a problem for me because I’m actually working.”

By which she meant, a nine-to-six gig. An actual job. In her eyes. Not the “work” of an independent publisher.

In the days that followed, I found myself listening to Boney M, reading through their discography and life stories. Their songs that were produced in the ’70s, came at me in the ’90s as TV promos, eventually became songs that I mindfully sought out to start⁠—and get through⁠—the (pandemic) day; today, in 2021.

I then wondered, what were their friends, the ones who chose a different (non-arts) path, what were they doing when Ma Baker was released back in ’77? (Fun fact: the song clocks in over 190 million views today on YouTube alone.) What was the longevity of the work produced by traditionalists, the nine-to-five-ers in ’77? Perhaps those who were “actually working” made a decision in the office that day that continues to impact the lives of many; a decision that made sure certain structures that were set in stone; a decision that influenced the rules and regulations that govern today.

But I’m not here to argue who’s producing “better” or more “meaningful” work.

Because work is meaningful to the person who does it.

Or at least it should be.